


A Series of Songs

by A_Candle_For_Sherlock



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Falling In Love, John is a good doctor, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Sherlock doesn't actually want to be alone, Sickfic, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-06 21:51:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6771601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Candle_For_Sherlock/pseuds/A_Candle_For_Sherlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes hides in his room when he's injured. Watson wants to take care of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Series of Songs

**Author's Note:**

> My sincerest thanks to tinfoilrose for their invaluable britpicking, Vicpicking and general editing expertise.
> 
> Russian translation here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/12006186

In the days when we were young and still learning one another's hearts, Sherlock Holmes would hide himself from me when he was injured.

He rarely met with harm, in spite of the dangerous nature of our work; he was energetic, alert and quick on his feet, and a competent boxer. If a fight presented itself, most criminals would suffer defeat at his hands much sooner than he would at theirs. But occasionally he came to grief in pursuit of a suspect. He would let me clean and suture his wounds, and take my incensed lecture on caution in silence. I knew the dangers to which he exposed himself were for the sake of the public good, but I hated to see him suffering--not that I was ever made to bear witness for long. As soon as I'd bound him up, he would take himself to his quarters.

He can sink into a low mood even now, but it happened often then. At times he’d lie speechless on our sofa for days, exhausted with the world. Time always restored him. It stood to reason that he responded similarly to ill health. The difference was that melancholy of the mind he endured silently in my company, while after bodily injury he’d hide himself away until he was healed.

So when he was cut across the ribs in an alley by a miscreant with a knife, I was not surprised that he went directly from my treatment to his bed and remained there. I imagined his mind, as keen and delicate an instrument as any in his laboratory, overstrained with the nervous reaction to the injury and in need of solitude and sleep. Sherlock Holmes is an intensely private man. I knew so little of him then--and I knew him better than anyone in the world.

I attempted to read by the hearth. His laboratory equipment shone on the table in the light of our fire. His books and papers sat unattended to. His violin lay quietly in the corner and I found myself gazing mournfully at it more than once. I missed its songs.

He generally traversed mental absorption with a musical accompaniment. His bow moved across the instrument in time with his thoughts, creating unspeakable melodic complaints and ecstasies unbound by any law of composition. It was frankly distressing to listen to; so when his ideas were in order at last, he’d conclude the session with a rapid recital of airs he'd learned I loved. He’d never asked my favorites, simply observed my responses to his playing and made his deductions. The night before he had played a series of simple melodies I recognized from my boyhood. As I had listened, tears had filled my eyes, startling him. I saw his mouth open as he observed the effect he was having on me, and he started to lift the bow from the strings in consternation; but I found my voice in time to say, “Please, Holmes,” and he understood and played on.

When the music ended I looked up to find him watching me with rare gentleness. His gaze on most occasions was keen and even cold, though it could light with humor or ferocity as he explained the ways of the world, the activities of London's criminals and the deductions forming in his fantastic mind. But tender looks were few. Under his observation I became conscious of myself. I dried my face on my sleeve. “Thank you,” I said and saw him smile, satisfied.

The memory of that smile stirred me to action. I knew (so I believed) he wished to be alone, but I thought (I was a doctor) there might be some good I could do him, something to aid his recovery. If he could fill my days with mayhem and adventure and at night play music to wake my fondest memories, I could at least offer him assurance that a friend was concerned for his comfort.

I tapped at his door, then pushed it softly open.

He lay in the dark without a candle. His face was turned to the wall. “Mrs. Hudson,” he said. “I am not hungry.”

“Holmes, it’s me.”

His head lifted from the pillow. His hair was in wild disarray and his face looked pinched and weary. “Watson.”

“Shall I leave you alone?”

“No. Come in.” He turned gingerly onto his back. I sat on the edge of the bed and looked down at him.

“How do you feel?”

“Not my best, Doctor.”

“Are you in pain?”

“Some. It’s not serious, Watson, you know that.” He looked a little quizzically at me. “Are you fretting about me? Give me a few days, I’ll be fine.”

I laid the back of my hand against his face to check for fever and he sagged slightly at the touch, eyelids drooping down. He was warm, not with the blazing heat of illness but with fatigue and discomfort.

“Let me bathe your head,” I suggested and was rewarded with the beginnings of a smile.

I rang for a basin of lavender water and a clean cloth. Mrs. Hudson delivered it promptly. Settling again onto the bed beside him, I wetted the cloth and drew it over his brow, his cheek, down his long neck to the tender hollow at its base. I did it again on the other side. He sighed.

“Better?”

“Yes,” and his voice was warm with relief. I dipped the cloth in the water again and bathed his eyes. His look had been expressive of distress when I came in. Now his features were relaxed. His hands lay open on the coverlet beside me. I pressed my fingers to the soft skin at his wrist. His pulse was steady and slow.

"Why do you hide yourself from me?"

His eyes opened. "What?"

"When you're ill. Why keep yourself apart? I would stay with you. Gladly."

"I needed rest," he murmured, but he gave me a quick look through his lashes.

"You needed me," I scolded him. "As always."

He was quiet for a moment. Then, "You always look so pained."

"When you are injured? Holmes, yes, of course it pains me to see you suffering. So let me help you. It's what I do."

"It is," he said quietly. The shyness had faded and was replaced with a look of deep stillness. It was the look he wore when holding a crucial clue in his mind, finding exactly where to fit it to make a brilliant whole out of the gathered parts of a mystery.

I passed the cool cloth over his face with as much gentleness as I could muster, dipping it into the basin of scented water, pausing now and again to smooth back the tangled curls from his forehead. Each time he turned his head slightly into my touch, and finally I simply left my hand there, my fingers in his hair. His breathing grew slow.

I had so rarely seen Holmes falling asleep. He is energy in concentration, most days, and sometimes he forgets to care for his baser needs. His mind may be full of something like stars but his body still walked the earth with me.

“I’ll take care of you, Holmes,” I said softly. “I’ll make it my business to see that you’re as happy as you help me to be.”

I had thought he was already sleeping, but then I heard him whisper, “My dear Watson.”


End file.
